get there?” Rosa asked, spinning around to search.
Tristan spotted a narrow hallway leading off the kitchen. “One of these doors has got to lead downstairs.”
They took off again.
As they ran, Tristan could hear Mr. Moon and Angela at the front door.
“What great costumes l”
“Very scary!”
“What are you supposed to be? A mummy?”
They were oohing and ahing over trick-or-treaters passing out candy.
We should have screamed for help, Tristan realized. Maybe the trick-or-treaters would have helped us.
Maybe they have a parent along with them. We should have run to the front door and shouted.
Too late.
He heard the front door slam.
Rosa pulled open a door at the end of the short hall. “Yes! Here it is!” she cried. “Basement stairs.”
They didn’t hesitate. They made their way down the stairs. Tristan shut the hall door behind him as he followed the others down.
The basement air felt cold and damp. Tristan heard the steady drip drip drip of water somewhere in the distance.
A huge gray furnace as big as a small house rumbled in the center of the room. It was surrounded by mountains of junk.
Piles of old newspapers and magazines. Stacks of old clothing. Beat-up furniture. Cardboard cartons piled to the ceiling.
“Check it out. That window isn’t barred,” Rosa said, pointing.
Tristan gazed at the small window. It was at the basement ceiling, at ground level.
Was it big enough to climb through?
He heard the ceiling creak overhead. He knew that Mr. Moon and Angela were searching for them upstairs.
We have only a few seconds, he realized.
Ray stood under the tiny window, gazing up at it. “It’s pretty small,” he said.
“The rest of us are too big. But you can squeeze through,” Rosa told him.
“I’ll give you a boost,” Tristan said.
He cupped his hands and allowed Ray to place one shoe in them. Then he tried to hoist him up the stone wall toward the window.
“Whoa.” Tristan cried out as Ray slid back to the floor. “You’re too heavy,” he groaned.
“I couldn’t reach anyway,” Ray said. He ran across the room. He grabbed a milk crate and slid it under the window.
Tristan slid another one over to it and piled it on top of the first. “Okay. Climb up.” He gave Ray another boost, onto the top of the crates.
Ray started to reach for the window handle—when they all heard a cough.
Behind them, something crashed to the floor. A carton?
“What was that?” Rosa asked.
Tristan turned to the stairs. Mr. Moon?
No.
He heard another cough. Then footsteps coming toward them.
“Someone is here with us!” Tristan cried. “We’re not alone down here!”
20
They all gasped as Michael Moon stepped into the light.
He had tried to wipe off the vampire makeup. But patches of white clung to his cheeks and chin. His hair was still slicked back on his head. He had changed into jeans and a gray sweatshirt.
“I—I thought you were my parents,” he said, glancing to the stairs.
“They’ll be here any second,” Tristan told him. “You have to help us.”
“I tried to warn you,” Michael said. “You should have listened.”
“We didn’t know,” Rosa told him. “We had no idea that your parents—”
“They’ve done this before,” Michael Interrupted. “You mean—capture a real werewolf?” Tristan asked.
“They do it every year,” Michael answered. “I tried to stop them this time. I really did. But they wouldn’t listen.”
“How can we get out?” Ray asked. “Can you help me up to that window?”
“The window up there doesn’t open,” Michael replied, frowning up at it. “You’d have to break the glass. And there isn’t time.”
He gazed down at Rosa’s hand. “Those puncture marks. Don’t tell me—” His face filled with horror.
“A plog bit me,” Rosa said. “Your father had them in a big carton. He said—”
“Did he put them back in their box?” Michael asked. “He didn’t let them escape this time—did
Tristan spotted a narrow hallway leading off the kitchen. “One of these doors has got to lead downstairs.”
They took off again.
As they ran, Tristan could hear Mr. Moon and Angela at the front door.
“What great costumes l”
“Very scary!”
“What are you supposed to be? A mummy?”
They were oohing and ahing over trick-or-treaters passing out candy.
We should have screamed for help, Tristan realized. Maybe the trick-or-treaters would have helped us.
Maybe they have a parent along with them. We should have run to the front door and shouted.
Too late.
He heard the front door slam.
Rosa pulled open a door at the end of the short hall. “Yes! Here it is!” she cried. “Basement stairs.”
They didn’t hesitate. They made their way down the stairs. Tristan shut the hall door behind him as he followed the others down.
The basement air felt cold and damp. Tristan heard the steady drip drip drip of water somewhere in the distance.
A huge gray furnace as big as a small house rumbled in the center of the room. It was surrounded by mountains of junk.
Piles of old newspapers and magazines. Stacks of old clothing. Beat-up furniture. Cardboard cartons piled to the ceiling.
“Check it out. That window isn’t barred,” Rosa said, pointing.
Tristan gazed at the small window. It was at the basement ceiling, at ground level.
Was it big enough to climb through?
He heard the ceiling creak overhead. He knew that Mr. Moon and Angela were searching for them upstairs.
We have only a few seconds, he realized.
Ray stood under the tiny window, gazing up at it. “It’s pretty small,” he said.
“The rest of us are too big. But you can squeeze through,” Rosa told him.
“I’ll give you a boost,” Tristan said.
He cupped his hands and allowed Ray to place one shoe in them. Then he tried to hoist him up the stone wall toward the window.
“Whoa.” Tristan cried out as Ray slid back to the floor. “You’re too heavy,” he groaned.
“I couldn’t reach anyway,” Ray said. He ran across the room. He grabbed a milk crate and slid it under the window.
Tristan slid another one over to it and piled it on top of the first. “Okay. Climb up.” He gave Ray another boost, onto the top of the crates.
Ray started to reach for the window handle—when they all heard a cough.
Behind them, something crashed to the floor. A carton?
“What was that?” Rosa asked.
Tristan turned to the stairs. Mr. Moon?
No.
He heard another cough. Then footsteps coming toward them.
“Someone is here with us!” Tristan cried. “We’re not alone down here!”
20
They all gasped as Michael Moon stepped into the light.
He had tried to wipe off the vampire makeup. But patches of white clung to his cheeks and chin. His hair was still slicked back on his head. He had changed into jeans and a gray sweatshirt.
“I—I thought you were my parents,” he said, glancing to the stairs.
“They’ll be here any second,” Tristan told him. “You have to help us.”
“I tried to warn you,” Michael said. “You should have listened.”
“We didn’t know,” Rosa told him. “We had no idea that your parents—”
“They’ve done this before,” Michael Interrupted. “You mean—capture a real werewolf?” Tristan asked.
“They do it every year,” Michael answered. “I tried to stop them this time. I really did. But they wouldn’t listen.”
“How can we get out?” Ray asked. “Can you help me up to that window?”
“The window up there doesn’t open,” Michael replied, frowning up at it. “You’d have to break the glass. And there isn’t time.”
He gazed down at Rosa’s hand. “Those puncture marks. Don’t tell me—” His face filled with horror.
“A plog bit me,” Rosa said. “Your father had them in a big carton. He said—”
“Did he put them back in their box?” Michael asked. “He didn’t let them escape this time—did
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